THE sun finally came out to reveal a spectacular vista. All around lay snow-topped mountains while, far below, meandering silver streams and twisting farm tracks criss-crossed the valleys far below.

We were on the top of the world – well 8,000 ft up, anyway – and we felt we thoroughly deserved the heart-lifting views.

Because, to be honest, all had not gone exactly as anticipated.

My wife and I were in the Pyrenees. To be more precise, we were high above the glorious Incles Valley in the tiny principality of Andorra.

To reach our vantage point, we had slogged up the side of a mountain nearly twice the height of Britain’s loftiest peak, Ben Nevis, and almost three times that of Snowdon, the highest point in England and Wales.

I’ll be honest: I was exhausted.

But at least the hard physical effort was rewarded by the stunning views, which had not been the case hitherto.

My wife and I were on a walking holiday organised by Leicester-based Preferred Travel Services. The award-winning company arranges walking trips across Europe, but this is the toughest on offer.

The brochure promises: “The walks we have chosen for you offer suitable walking for recreational walkers of reasonable fitness.”

Well, a phrase like ‘recreational walkers’ is purely subjective. I always regarded myself as a recreational walker and, here, I found the going tough.

So did three of our 14-strong party who dropped out after the first of the three mountain walks, two because it had been too arduous and the other after spraining a wrist in a fall.

The initiation had been pretty gruelling, to put it mildly.

Because of heavy lying snow, our mountain guide had abandoned the planned first-day sortie to the Grau Roeg and Pessons Lake, a location which looked so lovely in the photos.

The mid-May weather was a surprise to many, including the locals, because by then, low-lying cloud, mist, rain, hail, and falling snow are rare.

We had them all – oh, and a thunderstorm, too.

Our substitute first walk took us for the first time into the Incles Valley, just down the road from our hotel in the ski resort of Soldeu.

Only on this occasion, we couldn’t see the scenery. In fact, we could scarcely see the end of our nose.

When we made it above the treeline, we were faced with tracts of deep snow which made our walking poles essential. It seemed more like a polar expedition.

Next day, conditions were gentler with a coach trip over the border into France where we walked in the hills near the spa town of Ax-les-Thermes, although it rained again.

Brown bears have been re-introduced into the region, although we saw none, and only circumstantial evidence of the presence of another wild creature, the boar.

The latter part of the walk took us along a babbling river with soaring cliffs which reminded me very much of Symonds Yat in Gloucestershire.

While in Soldeu, we stayed in the mightily-impressive four-star Sport Village Hotel which has a vaulted wooden atrium and magnificent facilities, including a three-storey mountain spa which I sampled and enjoyed.

Normally, Preferred Travel Services guests are accommodated in the sister Sport Hotel across the road, but it was closed for refurbishment. We were assured that while we were enjoying an upgrade, the Sport is a fine hotel, too.

Our week-long holiday was a bit of a whirlwind.

Andorra has no railway station, let alone an airport, so we had flown into Barcelona, which is a five-hour drive away.

On arrival in Spain, we stayed in the three-star Hotel Kursaal in Calafell, near Barcelona. Although a bit dated, the hotel is clean and tidy and right on the promenade overlooking a wonderful sandy beach.

However, in mid-May, the resort was like a ghost town, with virtually every hotel, bar, restaurant and apartment shuttered.

Next day we went on an optional excursion to the hilltop monastery of Montserrat, which is very touristy.

On Day Three, we arrived in Andorra which is an odd place. It’s a tax haven but even if I was a billionaire I wouldn’t consider living there for a second.

The first glimpse of the country from the Spanish border is of the capital city, also named Andorra, which is scruffy to the point of ugliness.

Fortunately, the ever-rising main road towards France brings prettier outlooks, although many marred by giant cranes helping to build yet more hotels and apartments.

On our way back home from Andorra, we had a whistlestop tour of Barcelona before being dumped for the night in the Gran Hotel Europe in Coma-Ruga, Calafell’s sister resort.

The hotel has a four-star rating which, in my view, is four too many. I can’t recall ever staying in such a noisy and careworn hotel with such offhand staff.

Our evening meal was inedible. The next morning, the dining room was such a bear garden that my wife and I turned on our heels and stalked off for breakfast at the only café open on the seafront.

Afterwards, we were faced with kicking our heels in the resort all day waiting for a late-night flight back to Birmingham.

Downcast, we then stumbled on the joy of the Pablo Casals Museum, just down the road.

Villa Casals was the seaside home of the world-renowned cellist and peace campaigner and it is probably the best-presented and uplifting museum I have visited.